Section 3

Where am I .? I left thee journeying on, Amid the sky-bound prairie's lonely solitudes, Striving to gain some island home, before the fall Of eventide, and w^hen its dim and woody ailes At length didst reach, and safely hous'd thyself Within some rustic's shelter rude — v^hat thoughts Of painful sweetness then thy lonely mind employ'd ; And home — "sweet home" — friends and companiona
dear, Arose as with a spell mysterious, And pass'd in sweet review within thy memory. Friend ! an aching pang — a mystic chord, Is 'twin 'd around that little treasur'd word ; And each remove from a dear cherish 'd one,
34 MRS. munday's poems.
As 'twere by tension adds a keener pang.
Thou hast return'd — thy roving feet once more,
Have sought the spacious halls and sylvan shades,
Of proud Miami, famed for classic lore.
The boon companions of thy youth again thou'lt meet.
And press the eager hand of friendship warm,
And in old faces read nev;^ welcomes home.
Thou'lt tread those social classic halls once more,
Where new fledged politicians oft essay'd
To soar, on fancy's wings bombastically sublime ;
And again thou'lt wander through the twilight groves
Of that old temple, as in boyhood's days,
And hear their wind-waked melodies arise.
And float through all their dark and dim arcades.
Till cradled in the tall and whispering grass.
They're hushed to resst.
'Tis a sweet spot, and like A paradise, but that no dark-eyed houri's hymn Is ever heard along the sounding aisles. Dost recollect those golden hours of bliss Long passed — When oft with book in hand thou did'st Beneath those sylvan shades recline, where oft The antique woods in vernal beauty rang, With first attempts of youthful eloquence, As even of old the thunderer the forum shook ?
How oft the echoes woke in answering strains, To Homer's classic songs — the story sad,
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 35
Of proud and hapless Illium's fall,
Those records old of war-like deeds and god-like men.
And here thou'st listen'd to the empassion'd strains Of Byron's deep toned melancholy lyre, Wondering in strange bewilderment if he could be. Or man, or fiend, or of celestial birth. As oft with mad'ning sweep he rent its quivering strings.
And o'er immortal Shakespear's wizzard songs. In rapturous admiration thou hast bent : While sweet Ophelia's woes, and Desdemona's wrongs, And Juliet's touching love, and hump-back'd Richard's
crimes. Of the enchanter's power gave ample proof, And of his searchings deep wnthin the still And viewless workings of the human heart.
But now my simple reedy song is done. For well I know that thou art wearied grown, With my untutor'd lays and harpings rude. In its accustomed nook my rustic lyre I'll hang — but yet perchance in shady covert hid, Thou'lt hear me warble forth again my wood notes wild. Till then, farewell !
36 MRS. munday's poems.
The " Lone Tree," and the Solitary Grave. To Oscar.
There many a bird of weary wing,
Like Noah's wandering dove may rest ;
Its grateful shades a joyauce bring Unto the wayworn trav'ler's breast.
Bear high thy proud majestic boughs thou tree, And wide thy kind protecting branches spread ;
For there is one at re.-t, who sleeps by thee. Bold and serene — our cherished, changeless dead !
How oft my dreaming thoughts go back
Thro' the misty vale of sighs and tears j To bask along the flow'ry track,
In the hght of toy childhood's years. Its sense of joy, how deep and full,
How wild and high its burning dreams *, Life's visions shone all beautiful.
As through a prism nature gleams.
Oh ! then the fondest hopes were mine,
With patient zeal my mind could soar To distant joys I deemed divine.
Which now my heart can feel no more. And as I muse, I'm thinking now
Of one asleep we loved so well. With placid mien and thoughtful brow,
Who by our hearthstone used to dwell.
And through the might of kindred ties,
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 37
Her angel presen'" 5io\v draws near ; While with my spirit's yearning eyes,
I can behold the loved one dear. How spirit-like her azure eyes,
How soft her voice and bland her smile ; E'en as the light of summer skies,
That glows above some ocean isle.
How mild and sweet her gentle ways.
How pure the fountains of her mind. Which often gushed in saphic lays.
Like plaintive harp-strains of the wind. Bathed in Pierien founts, her soul
Wore the bright hues of musing thought ; Dreaming of some enchanted goal,
As if from heaven those hues were caught.
Ah ! sweet as Polyhymenia's song,
The mournful music of her lyre, In classic numbers flowed along,
As oft she swept each trembling wire. No more, alas ! that spirit lute.
With trembling lays our hearts shall thrill ; The tender voice we loved is mute,
And the throbbing pulse is still.
There waves a solitary tree,
Upon the prairie's distant verge ; And pining winds are mournfully
Awaking many a solemn dirge ;
38 MRS. Monday's poems.
And where the dreaming star-eyed flowers, Their voiceless hymns of joy around,
Are singing to the summer hours, Her place of solemn rest is found.
And oh ! 'tis consecrated ground, For there she sleeps alone — alone —
While viewless spirits hov'ring round, Methinks have claimed it for their own.
Song of the Genii.
" There is a principle of the soul superior to all external nature ; and through that principle we are capable of surpass- ing the orders and systems of the world, and participating the immortal life, and the energy of the sublime celestials.
* * * When the soul is elevated to
natures above itself, it deserts the orders to which it is awhile compelled, and by a religious magnetism is attracted to another and loftier with which it blends and mingles. — Zanoni, or the Secret Order.
When the earth is slumber-bound, In the shades of night profound. As the gush of silver streams, All the starry host of beams Shed their dewy glories round ; When the chill is on the ground And nor step, nor voice, nor sounds
misckllaneous pieces. 39
Breaks the solemn stillness round ;
And the moon of ashy hue,
Sails along the deeps of blue,
In her barque of dreamy light,
With her sails of cloudlets white,
And her figure-head in sight,
Through all the jewel'd hours of nightf
O'er the land and o'er the sea,
Mortal, we are there with thee.
In the silence dark and deep,
When the weary are asleep.
While nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain,
Marks the cold etherial plain ;
Then to us a charm is given.
Not of earth, but fraught of heaven.
Then we kindly vigils keep.
And the willing senses steep,
In our changing tears and smiles,
And the slumb'rer's thoug-hts be2:uile.
In the rosy land of dreams.
Of spirit-lyres and singing streams,
Fancy-wrought
Wing'd with thought, far away.
In the shadow of the woods. Where the roar of falling floods, Breaks in echoes o'er the hill, By the lakelet dark and still, In the golden sunset's glow.
40 MRS. munday's poems.
In the vallies warm and low Mid the rainbow-tmted fiow'rs. Through the sylvan walls and bowers, In the homes of mirth or woe, Where e'er the wand'ring zephyrs go In the light and in the shade, With the soul of any grade, Wrought of heaven, or earth, or air. We are here, and we are there. We are with thee every where. And around thee ever dwell. Like the spirit of a spell. Or the essence of a dream, Or the life of perish 'd streams Like the shade of banished sound. Or the pulse of night profound Or the music of the dews. Never known, never seen, These are spirit-like I ween.
When the meteor mild and high,
Flashes down the midnight sky,
And its lone sepulchral gleam.
Glows within the lambent stream.
Swift its birth and pale its beam.
As the mem'ry of a dream ;
And the glow-worm through the gloom,
Lights his small ephemeral fires
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 41
Where the ivy wreathes the tomb,
And the tones of orphean wires,
Tremble in the tall rank grass,
While through the steep and rocky pass,
Shrieks the owlet's doleful sono-.
Waking echoes dull and long;
Where nor bloom, nor verdure smil'd.
Midst the herdless rocklets wild;
Up the glen and o'er the marsh.
Where the sounds are dull and harsh —
We'll be with thee then and there,
Tho' thou seek-'st to wander where.
Aught of spirit good or ill. Ne'er shall follow against thy will.
Mortal, if thou seek'st relief, From a soul-o'er-masterino; srrief. Or from doubt, or dread, or fright. Or with step and bosom light, Wand'rest with the joyous throng. Where rich harpings peal alon^- ; What e'er thy wishes, hopes or quests, What, tho' we seem unbidden guests, What e'er betide thee, good or ill. The voiceless Genii guides thee still.
42 MRS. mundat's poems.
Osceola's Lament.
Here in these lonely prison walls,
Seminola's chief is laid ; The white man from his forest halls,
Has lur'd him and betray'd.
Here in the white man's prison chain'd,
Like an eagle caged I pine ; The free blood coursing through my veins,
My spirit unresigned.
No more I'll bound along the vale, With a kindred warrior band ;
No more my steed will snufF the gale. When foes invade our land.
The war-knife we'll no more unsheath, To wreak our vengeance fell ;
Or hear the loud, clear, war-whoop shrill, Or the forest-brave's wild yell.
Our council fires no longer gleam,
Their ashes now are cold ; And far from Pensacola's stream.
Wander our warriors bold.
'No more we'll launch the bark canoe
From off the pebbly shore ; The finny tribe no more pursue,
With swiftly dashing oar.
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 43
No more the pipe its fragrant fumes,
Sends curling round our heads : Dead silence wraps in sullen gloom
The spot where braves have bled.
No more around the watch-fire's blaze,
Will forest maidens dance ; Or Osceola e'er embrace,
Or meet the " White Fawn's" glance.
The pliant bow lies all unbent.
The arrrow now is broke : The red man's pride and power is wrent,
His neck must wear the yoke.
Great Spirit ! are the red man's wrongs,
As nothing in thy sight f Is treachery and crooked tongues.
Approved by thee as right ?
But hark ! the pale face may be near, Exulting o'er the red man's pain.
No sigh from Osceola shall he hear, He may not hear a Chief complain.
When storms arise and round us sweep.
The bending willow quakes ; But proudly stands the stately oak
It scorns to bend — and, breaks.
A smile of sullen scorn his lip now wreath 'd, It quivered — trembled — 'twas the last ;
44 MRS. mundat's poems.
Proud Osceola now no longer breathed — His spirit dark and grim had pass'd !
Musings,
On the Death of a Class-mate.
Look yet on this pale face, Dim grows the semblance on man's heart impress'd, Come near and bear the beautiful to rest.
Spring shall return, Bringing the earth her lovely things again, All — save the loveliest far — a voice — a smile —
A young sweet spirit gone. — Mrs. Hemans.
Alas ! that flow'ers should loose their blushing hues,
That fairest ones are ever earliest to depart,
That autumn with its chilling breath should come
To kill and scatter round the verdant leaf ;
That time should smite the open brow of youth,
And leave his wrinkled impress there ; that its glad
voice Should e'er be hush'd — and o'er the red ripe lips. And radient eyes, that death should set his seal. She whom I sing was fair ; e'en as the brow Of night's pale regent, whose enchanted beams. Stole down the Latmian hills of old and charm 'd Endymeon's heart to joy, and Paphean dreams.
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 45
Aye ! fair — and there were those perchance, who
deemed Her beautiful ; but there was that within, Her spirit's temple, that woke a charm more potent Than sweet beauty's self can fling upon the past. A soul, pure, of child-like innocence and fraught With the celestial fires of angel poesy. She had early learn 'd the joy of nature's Worship ; for unto her all things assumed Prismatic hues — a deeper charm did wear, Than unto minds of common mold. The fields And plains in sunny beauties dress'd; the wood'* Dark solitudes — the shad'wy lake within Whose breast serene, in silence floats each form Of nature's charms — the pulseless spheres of night, Like ageless sentinels, that keep their watches cold Along the silent sky's far infinite, — The stately moon in her cold beauty dress'd. The brilliant sunset — gold tinged and crimson dy'd, — The fitful music of ceolean winds. As they would rise and sweep the ocean's crest, And through the dim woods wake their murmurs deep ; The silvery chime of many mingling streams. And the blithe songs of summer birds ; these, With all their varied charms, sank deep within her
heart. And stir'd the placid waters of her soul, Which gushing, flow'd away in streams Of sweetest melody.
46 MRS. munday's poems.
And she had musings, Strange, yet sacred ; musings, such as may dwell Within the breast of innocence alone : For oft would she in dreamy reveries 'rapt, Recline upon the soft green sward and watch The towering clouds as they would rise and float, Like panoramic scenes in mountain strength And majesty away.
And upward still. Her thoughtful gaze was fixed, as if to pierce The far beyond — and with intelligence Divine, to hold converse — while the mute joy Of her pure soul bedew'd her eyes' soft azure. As though sh'd caught a tissuey dream of heaven ! And oft her parian hand amid the lute strings Wander'd for strains inspired — and when they came. The charm 'd soul trembled — thrilPd, and was absorbed In music ; now sweet and low, then wild and high, As the strange gush of Memnon's fabled sounds. Whose surges deep stole round the column'd arches Of the antique fane, and in the fret-work. Of the lofty dome, and down the time worn walls The mystic voice expired.
E'en now my heart Thrills with a sense most sad of melancholy joy, As recollection stalks along the past, When gently link'd in friendship's rose-wreathed chain,
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 47
I've wandered oft along the twilight aisles
Of some far echoing wood, with her who oft
In dalliance fond would smooth my sadden'd brow,
And round her playful finger 'twin'd my careless hair.
But she, amid the mournful cadences
Of sounds autumnal ; of falling leaves,
And faded flowers, hath lately gone to rest.
O \ would I might recall those hours serene,
And backward roll the lethean waves of time,
And from oblivion's ebon vortex glean
The treasures of the past.
Alas ! no more
Shall her bland voice, or sunny smile, or words So full of trustful hope e'er fall again
Upon my riven heart, or shine above
My lonely way ; for with those halcyon hours
My brightest dreams of hope and joy were blent,
Now, each succeeding one that onward rolls,
Bears ample record of my falling tears.
Lo ! where yon willow with the cypress vine,
In grief-like silence twines its fibrous limbs,
A hillock rises green, and the low winds.
In fitful gusts, wail through the tall grass mournfully,
A death-dirge o'er the tomb j the lost of earth ; —
'Tis there she lies, in awful, sweet repose.
Spring, with her bland and gentle breath shall kiss
The earth again, upon whose glowing breast.
In radient bloom shall smile the sta eyed flowers,
48 MRS. munday's poems.
A.nd the extinguisli'd flame may be relit,
jBut spring ao more shall e'er the rosy hues
Of hfe to the still features of the voiceless dead
Restore, or e'er the spirit-fires relume.
And yet I would not summon back the soul
Departed — fetterless, pure, and free — or wake
It to life's miseries. I would not compass
That celestial spark within a woe-worn tenement
Of sickly clay, though cold and damp her narrow bed
And her repose be long and dreamless.
Although no orient beam of morning sun,
Or evening moon, or melancholy stars.
Shall gleam along the dim sepulchral halls,
To gild their darkness, or music-murmurs
Of charming streams, or songs of birds or windj
The long monotonous night may ever break.
Ah ! no-^I would not now unlock eternity,
Or e'er disturb the death-bound slumberer's rest.
Yet, careless wand'rer, step not rudely o'er
The sacred dust, lest ye shall crush
The violets there that blossom on her breast.
They hang their timid heads and weep all night,
Until the morning sun with genial ray,
Shall kiss the trembling tears away.
The modest weepers crush not, for a semblance fair,
We've found in them of heiLwho sleeps below.
Like pleasant thoughts, or evanescent hues
Which curtain sunset with their gorgeous dyes ;
Like a soft dream, or dyin^ melody
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.
49
That leaves no trace behind — so her mild spirit Took its flight, and the soul-lit radiance Of her deep-blue eyes went out forever !
RossEAu's Heloise. Adjuration.
Can'st thou forget, that solemn day When warm in youth I gave the world away ? Can'st thou forget what tears that moment fell, When lost to thee, I bade the world farewell? — Pope^
Deep are thy fountains love, thy spells how strong, Thy draughts are poisonous, and thy joy thrills pain; Yet is there bliss in your refin'd excess, tho' long The sad o'er burthen'd soul may strive in vain, To rend from off the mind the burning chain, In wild idolatry that mad'ning binds, Unsought the throbbing heart, and o'er wrought brain ; Ah ! sacred, pure and bless'd, is love that finds, One heart alone — one soul — one sacred shrine.